


Don't Go to Strangers

by thegrumblingirl



Series: Dishonored prompts [6]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Pining, Prompt Fill, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 22:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16774084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: ‘It’s the Fugue,’ people say. ‘Everything’s forgiven and forgotten.’But what if you can’t forget?





	Don't Go to Strangers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThreeWhiskeyLunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/gifts).



> prompt originally filled on [tumblr](https://screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse.tumblr.com/post/180594773345/for-the-dialog-prompts-31-for-curnowthomas)

_‘It’s the Fugue,’ people say. ‘Everything’s forgiven and forgotten.’_

_But what if you can’t forget?_

_It starts, as many things do, with too much to drink, the mending of broken hearts, and the breaking of a few more. That’s nothing new, in Dunwall._

They woke up, the morning after, with the mother of all hangovers and their limbs tangled under flimsy sheets. Thomas wasn’t sure of much of anything besides the clanging in his head, which he could not be certain only he could hear. Belatedly, he recognised the ringing of the Clocktower’s bells. He went to get up, but realised the weight of an arm slung over his waist, tightening its hold when he moved. He turned instead, still hiding a yawn behind his hand.

When he opened his eyes, he took in the face of the man yet half-asleep beside him — and stilled.

_Oh, Void._

_How fucking drunk_ — he gulped, trying to rein in the thoughts racing in his head that were going far too fast for him to have a hope of catching them while his skull still felt like splitting in two.

How? How damn drunk had he been to end up in bed, getting his brains fucked out, by the Captain of the City Watch?

Of course, Curnow wouldn’t have known who he was. Stripped of his Whaler’s coat and mask, Thomas was just another young man from Morley, caught up in the revelry that was the Fugue Feast in Dunwall.

But Thomas knew very well who Curnow was, in or out of uniform — not that he didn’t wear it well. Not that Thomas would ever utter that out loud within hearing range of Daud, or anyone. As a Whaler, one did not simply (and quietly) consider the Captain of the Watch a handsome man; no matter that he was, close up.

Very close up.

It must have been very, very dark in that pub.

About as dark as Thomas’s future was looking now.

He had to get out of here.

Carefully, he extricated himself, his skin tingling when Curnow’s fingertips slipped from his waist. He bit his lip so as not to make a sound. Almost, almost—

“Where’re you going?” Curnow’s gravelly voice stalled him in place. Oh, no.

“I need to go,” Thomas managed. “I—I can’t stay.” Wasn’t that the purpose of Fugue, he thought. To do things you normally never would and then not talk about it in the morning? Everything was forgiven and forgotten, and no-one ever stayed.

“Mmh,” Curnow hummed, blinking.

“Alright, I suppose,” Curnow said then, and Thomas took that as his cue to turn and start hunting for his clothes, loathe though he was to turn his back on the Captain. Not for distrust, but for the scars littering his back. As he bent to retrieve his shirt, he felt Curnow’s eyes on him. Would it have been better, had they been a complete stranger’s? He wasn’t sure.

About a minute later, he was dressed, and sat on the edge of the bed to fasten his boots. He looked over his shoulder, and found Curnow near sleep, but still watching him. His eyes were kind.

“Enjoy the Fugue,” Thomas said, getting up. He moved towards the door, his only desire to leave. He was almost outside, when he heard Curnow murmur.

“Goodbye, Thomas.”

_Fuck._

Thomas returned to the Chamber. Daud didn’t ask where they’d been, as long as they were back by the time the bells rang in the new year and the city returned to law and order. Well, as much of that as Dunwall ever was.

_This will never happen again, Thomas tells himself. Curnow will never know that he spent the night with a Whaler, the scourge of the capital, and the name ‘Thomas’ will fade from his memory, along with his face._

_It won’t happen again._

* * *

_Another year, another Fugue. Their eyes meet across the bar. Do they tell themselves it’s coincidence?_

That morning, Curnow didn’t let him get away so easily.

“Stay,” he mumbled into the back of Thomas’s neck. They were in a small room above the tap room — hadn’t even made it out of the pub.

“I can’t,” Thomas whispered by way of reply.

“Why not?“

Because I might be sent to kill you tomorrow, was the honest answer.

“This was a mistake,” was the one he gave. “The Fugue’s not the place to make a habit.”

“Twice isn’t a habit,“ Curnow rumbled, sounding more tempting than he had any right to, but he removed his arm from Thomas’s waist to give him space to move away. It dislodged something in Thomas’s chest.

“Then let’s not get to three,” Thomas decided, getting out from under the sheet.

“Alright,” Curnow answered lightly.

Thomas resented his ease. The luxury of not knowing the danger you were in, he thought.

He was out the door a few minutes later.

* * *

The next time they met, it wasn’t during the Fugue. It was the Month of High Cold, Dunwall encased in sheets of ice and steel; and Thomas was out on a job. Daud had sent him to the Estate District, to case a noble’s household, and it was freezing enough for anyone to be unhappy, even a master’s most devoted novice. But Thomas had no intention of disappointing Daud, and so he rubbed his arms for warmth, then settled back into the shadows.

Below, guards and officers walked their patrols, and he was hardly paying attention until a familiar voice caught his ear.

“There’s Hatters here tonight. I want them gone.”

Thomas leaned over the edge of the roof.

“Don’t let them get away.”

Thomas frowned. There was indeed a Hatter outpost near — crawling with the badly dressed bastards, frankly. And down there, was the Captain, and a dozen more guards and officers.

Nowhere near enough.

He was going to get himself killed.

Thomas moved back from the edge.

None of his concern. He had a job to do.

The group below moved on, and silence returned. Thomas clenched his fists.

Just a quick look.

He sighed. It was never just a quick look.

The noble’s house hadn’t seen any movement in half an hour. Everyone was asleep. Thomas got up, wincing when his legs turned to pins and needles.

This was a bad idea.

He heard the gunshots before he even saw the house, and heard Curnow bellowing orders over the racket. He was crouched behind a stack of crates, returning the Hatters’ fire, though not the bricks they had taken to throwing. Thomas scanned the courtyard for a safe vantage point — and then he saw him: the Hatter coming up behind Curnow, knife drawn.

Thomas didn’t do much more looking after that.

He transversed down, drawing his blade as he landed on an awning above the Hatter, then dropped down on top of him.

It was a clean kill, save for the mess on the cobblestone. He looked over his shoulder, finding Curnow putting a bullet between the eyes of the last Hatter standing. Good.

He called for the Void, aiming up, just up, and transversed away before Curnow could turn.

Once he was out of sight, he heard Curnow exclaim, “What in the Void?”

“Where’d he come from?” one of the meathead guards wondered aloud.

“More importantly, how did he die?“ Curnow sounded almost angrier at the mystery of it than the fact that a Hatter had nearly stabbed him in the back. “Did you see anyone else?“

“No, sir. No-one.“

“Search the rest of the house. And the roof,“ Curnow commanded.

Thomas was halfway across the city when the first guard set foot on the roof.

* * *

_Let’s not get to three._

Thomas told himself it was just to make sure that his recklessness had not been in vain. It was the last night of the Fugue. He’d not spent the past two alone. There’d been a few nights, the past year, that he’d sought out comfort during the night. Not at the Chamber — he wasn’t that much of a fool. But between missions, the Whalers were on their own, even if they were always Daud’s. There were no questions asked if they slept somewhere else some nights.

Certainly, no questions during Fugue.

In the morning, he turned around. He stayed. The Clocktower chimed out of tune, announcing the new year. It was Thomas’s cue to leave.

He laid his hand on Curnow’s stubbly jaw and kissed him.

Curnow hummed. A familiar sound, now, for all that he’d heard it thrice. His thumb was tracing patterns along Thomas’s back.

“Why?” he asked, looking much more awake. They hadn’t had all that much to drink last night. “Can’t pretend I’m a stranger if you kiss me now.”

“Can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you, either,” Thomas muttered. He averted his eyes, but raised them again when Curnow touched his chin.

“There a story there?” he said quietly.

“None of consequence,” Thomas returned. There were stories, he supposed, he might have to tell.

But not today.

**Author's Note:**

> a) will they get properly together? grumble doesn't know  
> b) will Thomas confess he's a Whaler? grumble doesn't know  
> c) will everything involve a lot of useless pining and dumbness? grumble definitely knows


End file.
